Five days holiday, five poems …

Five days holiday, five poems …

I guess this is a kind of ‘what I did on my holidays’.   Only not …  here’s five rambling, loose poems that began from thoughts connected to that time and place.

Here’s my idea of;


Tea bag, in a mug, times two, set by a kettle.
Leaving the front light on for me coming in.
Wildflowers, wilting, bruised, in a milk bottle.
Voices round me as I fall asleep.

Waking under canvas whilst the world turns.
Knowing others read this book before me.
Being with you, making plans; keeping them.
A friend’s easy talk in conversation.

The black paint of a venue ceiling; bass marked.
A new blue notebook, the spine unbroken.
Finding the full strawberry in a jar of jam.
Sharing the chips I bought.

The smell of beer in a morning; my first home.
An army tyre pressure gauge; my grandad’s.
My sewing box distilled from both my gran’s.
Honesty seed pods; shape and form come to life.

How we look at things;


Camping on a farm, fragranced by cows,
we graze on rhubarb and cream teas. Jam.
The gradients to town give way to views;
force sun bathed labour from our feet.

Compulsory retreat from routine; a vacation.
Lost; meaning, pattern, stress and hassle.
Work is cooking, washing, finding shoes.
The coupling with money’s gone.

Past the sunlit graveyard sorrow’s buried;
looks out onto an angry sea of adventure.
Port lights signal the risks of grounding;
a drayman offers barrels down below.

Streets and harbour fit to burst with folk;
music, fried food, signs, seagulls, shops.
Here T shirts offer quick common wisdom:
Happiness. An inside job.


You are always there. Waiting.
Even when I forget my name;
sewn to my toes, hoping to fly.
The better half of me, often.

That in your dark is fertile hope,
buried treasure, unnamed jewels.
An everlasting well of shade,
I tread bravely where you follow.

In bed you dream for me; fantasy.
Offer my day in spotlight, highlight,
blended with the sun’s heat
and the relief of your telling.

Where you are I am happy, ever after;
high, low and learning to be still.
To see beauty in form and shape
and sometimes in my shadow.

A literal beginning;


A hill, a caravan rocking, no knocking.
Then me.
Accents, down from the toon;
like warm tinned beer.
Does a right need exercise to exist?

Glacier carved moor, topped with ice cream vans.
Raw pleasure.
Radar for an old war;
now a cold foe.
What does liberty look like?

I always loved this place; chips and sand,
tar stained knees.
Unlike Alice I remembered;
knew I’d return.
To a known, gold freedom.

June. The sun reaches to the moon.
Sings of light.
Thinks in terms of warmth,
love, strength, faith.
Says use this day.

The adulting thing;


An empty hall; that stillness stirs the past.
Heartstrings that bind, by choice; hard fast.
Idle summers days, each more potent than the last.
A first hit of story. The reach of that blast.
Shared music. A spell to set this mast.